Shadowfell

by Juliet Marillier

  I cleared my throat.

  ‘My name is Regan,’ he said quietly. ‘This is Fingal.’ He indicated the tattooed man. ‘And you, I think, are Flint’s girl.’

  Oh, gods! Relief washed through me, powerful enough to fill my eyes with tears. I was here. I had reached the place. I was among friends at last. ‘Neryn,’ I croaked. ‘My name is Neryn. And no, I am not Flint’s girl, for he and I have parted ways. But I am the girl you mean.’

  ‘This must wait,’ the dark man said, glancing around the open area. Most of the folk I had seen before were gone now, vanished as if the rocks had swallowed them. But surely they had been ordinary human folk, without the Good Folk’s capacity to merge. The place was almost empty. The young woman, Tali, could be seen over by the rock wall, passing items up to a person who was crouched on a ledge.

  ‘Tell me quickly,’ Regan said. ‘Where’s Flint now? How long since last you saw him, and where?’

  Such was the urgency in his voice that I answered without hesitation. ‘We camped not far up the valley, on the hillside, the night before last. He left the next morning. He didn’t tell me where he was going but . . . there was a band of Enforcers close by. They have been moving along the valley floor for some time, heading this way.’

  ‘Mm. I won’t ask what brought you in this direction on your own; that doesn’t matter now. Fingal, take her to the overhang, get down out of sight and keep her safe till this is over. Neryn, if you want to come through this alive, do exactly as Fingal tells you. If he says keep silent, then that’s exactly what you do, no matter what happens. No matter what you see. Understood?’

  Be as quiet as a mouse, Grandmother had said. No matter what you see. I nodded, my mind filling with dark possibilities. Fingal led me off without another word.

  ‘I hope you’re not scared of blood,’ he said.

  The overhang was no more than a slight inward curve at the base of the rock wall, with a couple of spiky bushes in front. Fingal thrust me into this meagre concealment. My cloak snagged, and when I pulled it free the fabric ripped. My companion squeezed in beside me.

  ‘Keep down,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t move and don’t make a sound.’

  I opened my mouth to ask a question, then shut it again. There was a look on Fingal’s face that made obedience the only choice. Something was coming; something I was fairly sure I did not want to witness. Between the thorny branches of the plants, I had a reasonable view of the open area. It was quite empty now; Regan had vanished along with the last of the others. No sign of warrior woman Tali, or of the fellow who had gone through my bag. No sign of anyone. I shivered. This was not much of a hiding place.

  We waited. There was not a sound to be heard save my companion’s steady breathing and the occasional cry of a bird. The snow had ceased falling. As we looked out, the clouds parted to let through a pale winter sunlight. The stark surfaces of the rocks were illuminated, showing myriad shades within the grey: mouse pelt, birch bark, an old woman’s long hair, the sea under a sullen winter sky, a man’s beautiful, lying eyes . . . And, there within the solid rock, the forms of uncanny folk, beings moulded from the living stone, strong and stark as the northern crags themselves. I could see quite clearly the massive limbs, the crushing hands, the squat bodies and strange blockish heads. The chinks that were mouths; the holes that were eyes . . . I sensed, too, that in the cracks and crevices of the rock walls many smaller folk were hiding, perhaps observing the incomprehensible behaviour of humankind.

  Fingal shifted, easing his legs. He flexed the fingers of one hand, then the other. Always, he had the knife ready to strike. His attention was wholly on the open space before us, on what was coming. It felt as if the whole world was holding its breath.

  Fingal laid a hand on my arm, then touched his finger to his lips, a warning that I must maintain silence. I nodded. He turned his gaze toward the spot where Tali and I had made our final sliding entry to this place. I had heard nothing at all. But now, coming down the zigzag approach, was a line of black-clad men with masks over their faces, advancing steadily in near silence. The Enforcers were here.

  I saw Flint straight away. He was dressed the same as all of them. Most of his face was hidden by the plain cloth mask, and his hands were in studded gauntlets. All the same, I knew him. He was coming down the awkward pebbly slope now, moving with an unerring balance. The next man was only two strides behind him. Why were the rebels holding back? Surely the time to strike was while the enemy moved in single file through the narrow path between the rocks. And Flint . . . The rebels thought of him as a friend; they’d made that clear. Now he marched into the open area with his weapon drawn, as if leading his band of Enforcers to the attack. What was this? My heart in my mouth, I waited for a sudden arrow, a well-aimed spear to fell him. If Tali and the others were concealed in the rocks up above us, surely at least one of them had a clear line of sight.

  There was no arrow, no spear. Flint reached the foot of the descent and motioned for the others to keep coming. They poured in after him, ten men, twenty, five-and-twenty. Fingal drew in a sharp breath. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his knife.

  Once all the Enforcers were on level ground, I thought they would fan out around the open area, ready for an attack. But no; they began to take off their packs, loosen their cloaks, remove their masks, get out water skins. One or two sat down with their backs against the rocks; some stretched weary limbs; a few took the opportunity to empty their bladders. Among them Flint stood at ease, shading his eyes against the watery sun, looking casually up to the top of the encircling rock wall. He had sheathed his sword. Do something, I willed him, my heart racing, my body all cold sweat. Dive for cover, retreat, draw your weapon!

  I took a long breath. Flint was my enemy. He was the mind-scraper, the liar, the man who had pretended to be my friend and had worked his evil magic on me. There he was, standing unaware in the face of certain death, and I should be glad. But I couldn’t bear it, I couldn’t let him die, I couldn’t . . . A shout of warning welled up in me. Before I could let it free, a subtle sound came from somewhere up above us: the hollow hooting of an owl.

  The rebel band poured out from the rocks, spilled down from the ledges, surged across the open ground. The sunlight flashed on naked blades; the air filled with screams of challenge. In the forefront was Tali, brandishing an axe and yelling at the top of her lungs.

  The first strike felled one, two, three, but the Enforcers were quick to seize weapons, to form a defensive ring, to parry the strokes of sword or axe, to meet iron with iron. I pressed a clenched fist against my mouth, forcing myself silent as I saw a rebel fall to be trampled by many booted feet, the brown of his tunic turned violent crimson. The space out there was a mass of struggling figures. Screams and shouts filled my ears. A rebel was fighting one-handed, his other arm dangling limp, broken by the flat of an enemy sword. He staggered. An Enforcer lifted his weapon high, ready to deliver a cleaving stroke to the head. And suddenly there was Tali. The axe swung in her hand; the blade struck the Enforcer at the waist, cutting deep. Blood sprayed, a red fountain. Tali jerked her head at the man with the broken arm, her meaning plain. Back off. You’re hurt. Get under cover.

  I did not see if he obeyed her, for the two were lost in the tumult of hacking, dodging, leaping, falling bodies. Beside me Fingal was tense with nerves, clenching and unclenching his hand on his weapon.

  ‘Not that way, go for his knees . . . Look behind you . . . Gods, Bryn’s down . . .’ he muttered as he craned to get a better view. There was no longer any need to keep quiet. Whatever noise we made would be lost in the shriek of metal on metal, the thud of axe or club on flesh and bone, the sounds of pain.

  It should have been a rout. The Enforcers had been unprepared, taking their ease, resting after a long march. The rebels had been waiting in ambush, the entire exercise obviously planned. There had been far more of them hidden here than I’d realised. But after those first losses the Enforcers had regrouped quickly; they were the
king’s elite warriors. Even my untutored eye could see their skills with sword or knife, the hard control in their movements, the way they worked with each other, seizing every advantage they could. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered. Another rebel fell, and an Enforcer despatched him with a swift downward movement of the sword. Had I reached the threshold of Shadowfell only to see Regan’s Rebels fight and lose their last battle?

  Flint. Where was Flint? In the maelstrom I had lost him. I scanned the field and found him by the rock wall. His sword was in his hand, its blade gleaming silver, not yet stained by blood. Surrounded by frenzied movement, assailed by screams and shouts of pain, he stood detached, poised, waiting. For what, I did not know.

  ‘Gods have mercy,’ muttered Fingal. ‘Doran’s done for, and Cass. Hold fast, boys. Hold fast.’ He was wound tight as a harp string.

  ‘Go,’ I said. ‘If you want, go out and fight. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘I’m under orders.’ It was clear Fingal wished it were otherwise. ‘If Regan says guard you, I guard you. Is it true? Are you this Caller we heard about?’

  A scream ripped across the battlefield. It was a sound to haunt a person’s dreams. When I looked out I saw amidst the mayhem a man lying prone, a man in a dark cloak. Where his head had been, there was a mass of crushed flesh and smashed bone, white, red, grey, hideous. His arms were outstretched. His hands lay open, like those of a sleeping babe. I drew a shuddering breath. Not Flint. Not Flint’s hands. That is an Enforcer, I thought. And in the same moment I thought, That is somebody’s son, somebody’s husband, somebody’s father. He was somebody’s friend.

  Flint had moved. He was in the middle of the melee, swinging his sword with the rest of them. I sucked in a breath. My skin was clammy, my ears were ringing. The best of the best, that was what the Enforcers were supposed to be. Best at combat. Best at torture. Best at terror. If they won today, the rebels would be destroyed and I would be sent to the king. And Flint . . . if he was killed, his foul craft would perish with him. He was a mind-scraper. He was everything I loathed and feared, and I should be glad to see him die. But it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like that at all.

  Fingal made a little sound. His eyes were narrowed, his attention all on the fight. Was I imagining that the tide had turned out there, and not in the rebels’ favour? A broad-shouldered Enforcer ran a man through with a sword. Another had his hands around an opponent’s throat, squeezing, squeezing. Now here was Flint, approaching from behind. His knife sliced across the Enforcer’s neck. The man went down like a felled tree, a river of red flowing over his dark cloak. The rebel fighter bent double, coughing and choking. Flint was already gone. I searched and spotted him striding toward a place where Tali and two other rebels stood with their backs to the rock wall, surrounded by Enforcers. A man had a spear pointed at Tali’s chest; he was shouting something, perhaps ordering the others to surrender or he would run her through. Oh, she would be a prize for the king, a fine strong weapon for his will.

  Fingal’s body was a coil of tension. He had his teeth sunk into his lip. Flint reached the group, and suddenly it was no longer a standoff but a fight. There could be no doubt which side he was on. One Enforcer down, and blood pooling. Another down, victim to Tali’s axe. A third struggling, pinned by two rebels. Only for a moment; three more Enforcers charged in and the tide turned again. Tali was on her knees. Flint and his opponent were rolling on the ground, each with knife in hand, each an eye blink away from death.

  And there was Regan, charging forward, slicing with his knife, distracting Tali’s opponent for long enough to let her scramble to her feet and snatch up her fallen weapon. Beside them, Flint twisted away from his own adversary, then despatched him with one sharp blow. ‘Yesss,’ hissed Fingal.

  Someone whistled, a high, clear signal. My companion cursed under his breath. A new line of Enforcers was coming down the track, weapons at the ready. Well-aimed arrows stopped two, but the rest stepped over their fallen comrades and kept coming, dark-cloaked, menacing, unstoppable. Only six of them; but at this extreme, six might be all it took to win the battle.

  ‘We’re gone,’ said Fingal with bleak certainty. ‘Unless there’s some magic you can work to get us out of this.’

  Magic. Oh, gods, my canny gift. Could I use it here?

  ‘If there’s something you can do,’ he added, ‘it’ll need to be quick.’

  My whole body was shaking. ‘I don’t know . . . maybe I could . . .’ I mumbled, peering out of the hiding place at the confusion of flashing blades, the struggling men, the dark cloaks and blood-stained tunics, the limp forms of the fallen, the fierce eyes of rebel and Enforcer alike. Think of something, Neryn. Now. The fresh group of Enforcers was down the path and onto the level ground. The six organised themselves in tight formation, two men with spears at the front, others behind with sword, knife, axe, metal balls on a chain. I could see how it would be: they would march forward as a group, cutting down anyone in their path.

  Now! Quick! I tried to find the place within me that was strong and powerful. I closed my eyes and called as I had up on the fell, when I had asked the Good Folk to hide me from Flint. Help! Help us!

  A curse from Fingal. I opened my eyes to see Tali down again, an Enforcer standing over her with club raised to strike. Help! I need your help! Nothing from the rocks; nothing from the shadows between the rocks. No uncanny warrior, no old man full of tricks, no Good Folk big or small. Yet I knew they were there; I had seen them. What was I doing wrong?

  ‘We’re finished,’ said Fingal.

  A shriek from Tali. A twist, a turn, and she was on her feet, leaping out of range a moment before the Enforcer’s club came down. Flint’s sword was a bright streak of light as he swung it two-handed, severing her opponent’s head. A roar of outrage from one of the new Enforcers. They had seen what happened. Now there would be only one target before their eyes: the comrade who had done the unthinkable and turned against his own.

  ‘Stand strong,’ breathed Fingal. ‘Give them your best.’

  The formation was moving steadily forward, its progress barely slowed by a couple of rebels who attempted single-handed strikes on its flanks. I must act before the six were within range of Flint and Tali. Something was stopping the Good Folk from helping me, something was getting in the way . . . Oh, gods, why hadn’t I thought of the obvious answer? Cold iron. This place was full of it. But not all uncanny folk were weakened by its presence – that had been proven in the defile. And what were those great blockish beings I had seen in the rock walls, if not stanie men?

  ‘Let me out,’ I said to Fingal. ‘Quick.’

  To his credit, he asked no questions, but scrambled out of our bolthole and stood guard – one man with a knife in the midst of a raging battle – while I climbed out after him. I fixed my gaze on a point in the stone wall, above and slightly ahead of the slowly advancing formation of men, and sought desperately for the right words.

  Fingal sprang in front of me, cursing, his weapon ready to strike. We’d been seen. An Enforcer with a knife in each hand was heading straight for us. My heart hammered. A rhyme. It had to be a rhyme.

  Fingal stabbed forward with his knife and danced about, making himself a target. The Enforcer had drawn first blood: Fingal’s tunic bore a dark stain on the sleeve. It had not slowed him. Still he ducked, swung, parried, his breath coming in gasps.

  ‘Son of a dog!’ yelled the Enforcer, forcing Fingal back with a series of slashing movements, using both his knives. I backed too, almost falling as my skirt caught on the low bushes screening the overhang. ‘Die in your blood, filthy traitor!’

  In my mind, a little Flint was alone on the shore, sweeping his stone warriors away with a brutal stroke of the arm. The verse: I had it. Quick, before the Enforcers moved past the spot. I reached for the being that stood in the stones above them, an ancient, slow creature that had probably seen a dozen such battles, a thousand such deaths as these.

  ‘Stanie Mon, Stanie Mon, stand up ta”, I
chanted in a shaking voice. ‘Stanie Mon, Stanie Mon, doon ye fa”.

  With a cracking, a splitting, a violent, thunderous crashing, the stanie mon fell. The men standing in its path had no chance. One moment they were there, frozen to immobility by the immense sound above them, the next they were gone, crushed beneath the great chunks of stone. Clouds of dust sprayed out across the open area, coating rebel and Enforcer alike. It rolled over us, rushing into my nose and eyes, making me cough and choke. There was a sudden sharp movement right by me, and a gasp, and a man fell to the ground lifeless. Fingal had seized his opportunity.

  ‘Great gods,’ he spluttered now, putting a hand to his eyes. ‘What was that?’

  Momentarily the battlefield was quiet, save for a breathy, sobbing sound from somewhere out in the swirling cloud. It was the sound of a man in terrible pain. The dust settled to reveal a great rough gash in the rock wall opposite us, and the pieces of the stanie mon lying as they had fallen, massive head, giant body, huge outstretched limbs. Around him, an army of grey ghosts still fought a dozen desperate small battles. There was Tali, coated in dust, and Flint by her, peeling the mask from his face. Thank the gods, they had not been crushed.

  ‘Black Crow’s curse!’ exclaimed Fingal. ‘You did it, didn’t you? With your little rhyme, you brought that whole thing down. You’ve won it for us. By all the gods, I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Fingal!’ someone shouted from over by the rocks, and as Fingal strode away in response – perhaps he thought I could defend myself by magic – I saw that not all the rebels had escaped the fall. Tali and Flint were still standing, but by the heavy slab that made up the stanie mon’s right arm, a young fighter lay trapped. His leg was pinned beneath the great block of stone. Even if all the men here tried to lift at once, I knew they could not shift that slab so much as an inch.